


Time is Relative

by nightmare_kisser



Series: Humble Schoolboy Beginnings [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Falling Into Semi-Canon, M/M, Rekindling Old Love, Separation, Time Gap-y, flirtation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-29
Updated: 2012-05-29
Packaged: 2017-11-06 06:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/415675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmare_kisser/pseuds/nightmare_kisser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finding each other again is easier than they thought it would be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time is Relative

**Author's Note:**

> Final chapter. C:
> 
> Thought I would clear up some misconceptions more than one person had by putting the beginning line/scene. Also, I wanted the fluff.

"So, your brother isn't morally compromised anymore, now that we're 'officially' adults in his eyes?" John questions with a healthy dose of humor as he slips his hand into Sherlock's and turns his head to murmur into his ear at Sherlock's eighteenth birthday.

It was never a matter of legality – the age of consent is, after all, sixteen – but to Mycroft, it's a deed done between responsible, matured, know-what-they-are-doing-and-have-reason-behind-it adults, preferably ones about to be wed, since Mycroft is traditional in that regard.

It was ridiculous, really, and now that it's over, John fully intends to end their friendship-only status in favor of something more catering to his true wishes, like giving Sherlock the bonus gift of birthday sex.

"Are you going where I think you are headed in saying that?" Sherlock smirks as he discreetly places a kiss on John's ear, seeming only to be muttering a secret of his own into it. No one at the get-together of their families (what friends does Sherlock have to invite but the Watson family?) notices or cares. They are all amiably talking amongst themselves, drinks in a majority of their hands, some of them a bit closer to being pissed than acceptable, probably.

"Well, it's not like anyone in this crowd would think of anything of it if we left to your bedroom right now. They wouldn't even see us leave, I bet. And if they came looking for us, they might just assume we're trying out your new microscope or something." And he touches the boxed item on the table in front of them. "Especially if we happen to take it up with us and disappear for a couple hours."

"Sometimes I wonder who is the true genius between us, John," Sherlock muses with a short laugh as he stands and picks up the gift, casually walking out of the living room, winding between mingling adults. John follows suit, and with each step he takes up the stairs, the noise of music and laughter of the little party quiets down to a dim hum, particularly as Sherlock closes his bedroom door behind John.

"Mm. Almost forgot what your room looked like; I rarely come over to your house. You like staying at mine too much," John observes as he plops down onto Sherlock's bed – larger than John's, and with a nicer mattress; damn rich folk – and peers up at the ceiling. He drapes his arms over his head and has his legs spread just a bit.

Sherlock crawls onto the bed and lies down next to John, resting his own arms at his sides. He follows the pattern of his textured ceiling with his eyes. "I am trying to grasp your departure. Is it really coming so soon?"

John sighs through his nose and peers over at Sherlock, admiring his profile for a moment before Sherlock turns his head to lock gazes with the blond beside him. John lowers a hand sifts it through Sherlock's hair, stroking back dark curls from his face. "It is, but try not to think about it, okay? And remember to look for me when I return. You said you would."

"And I intend to keep that promise. But John," Sherlock contradicts evenly as he props himself up on one elbow. He feels John's hand fall from his hair, and he leans over John to peer down at him properly. "Covetously, I want to keep you for myself. I know it is your goal to be a doctor in the army, and that is all very noble and good, but why can't you stay here and go to school with me, and be a traditional doctor?"

"Where is the excitement in that? And anyway, the troops need more doctors. I'll be out again before you know it, and right now, it's our time to do what we want; so won't you kiss me?" he says with a smile.

Sherlock sighs but returns the smile minutely, dipping his head to steal John's tongue into his mouth, his fingers already working deftly under John's jumper.

#

The day John goes off to training is the day Sherlock's life changes for the first real time, apart from the first night he slept with his best friend.

It changes in a way that brings him to the revelation that John has been the most singularly steadfast, placating thing in his life. The one person who has supported him the most, loved him the most, and put up with him the most. The one person he sees, now, he never wants to lose, or be without, or forfeit to something as petty as a bad breakup or another love interest or something of the sort. And certainly not to death; if John were to die, so would Sherlock.

And he does like to be dramatic, but he means it. He may be a bit self-destructive anyhow, but it might go a step too far if John is later sent over land and sea to a Middle Eastern country and returns in a body bag. The horror of thinking of not having John is shockingly painful.

It gives Sherlock pause and makes him cringe, because where would he be without John to aid him in his future career as a detective? Where would he be without John to curl up to in bed each night in a flat they will find together and live in humbly, but without a boring moment between them? Where would he be at all without that one constant in his life to keep his addictive behavior at bay – He tried smoking when he was fourteen, and John stopped him; he tried drugs when he was fifteen, and John put an end to it as well – and without the one person to prevent him from being disastrously alone?

Sherlock doesn't care who sees it; he grips both of John's hands and presses a kiss to John's knuckles and keeps his lips there as he closes his eyes and mutters, "Don't let them change you too much, and when it comes time for you to serve, try to keep at least a kilometer's distance from any conflict, you hear me?"

John huffs a laugh and pries his fingers from Sherlock's. "It won't be that bad. Everyone has these horrific notions of the military, but it's not bad, it really isn't. Even in America the drill sergeants aren't as bad as they make them out to be in film, so you don't have anything to worry about. I'll serve Queen and Country and be back soon. I keep telling you that; when will you believe me?"

"When I see it. When you return once and for all and I can rest easy."

"Try to focus on your life and not mine, all right, Sherlock?" John tells him as he plants a swift kiss on Sherlock's forehead, brushing back his fringe and ignoring a blemish or two hidden beneath. "Go to university. Study criminology and forensic science and chemistry and all those things you love. And then find yourself a nice flat, but not too pricey, and start gaining allies at Scotland Yard so they let you in on their cases. And when I'm back in London again, you better come find me, because I don't think a few years apart with scant holidays intermitted will change my feelings for you. Friends for life and all that; you're stuck with me."

"Agreed," Sherlock whispers. He looks up at John and wants a million things – to crush John's body to his; to suck his fingers into his mouth after another kiss to them; to lock their lips together; to turn John around and bury himself in John's hair, his breath at John's neck; to run his hands down John's denim-covered thighs; to actually bring himself to say goodbye – but opts to dismiss each and every fleeting want, banishing them to the far reaches of his mind to save for later, when he will need the imagery most. He shakes John's hand and gives him a pat on the back with the other. "See you."

John looks torn as he pulls away. "Yeah. See you." He bites his lip. "I –" he stops short, gathers himself up with a trembling breath, and his father is there, now, and he can hear John if he says it, but he has been meaning to say it for the longest time, maybe even years before they changed their relationship, because it's always been _true,_ even if it hasn't always been romantic. "I love you, Sherlock."

Sherlock feels as though someone has knocked the wind from his lungs. His chest coils into a knot and he can't seem to swallow correctly. He opens his mouth, but no words come. He can't even say it back to John, much as he wants to. He nods instead.

John nods, hopefully not put-off, and turns away, his hand slipping out of Sherlock's grasp from where they forgot to drop hands after shaking them goodbye. And then Mr. Watson sends them both a questioning look before shrugging it off and following his son into the cab that will take them all the way to base camp, where the new recruits are managed. Sherlock studied the route on the computer; he knows the way. He knows where to go and how to evade cameras and guards and the like if he so wishes to break in and see John again on short notice.

But he won't follow through. He only likes the idea that he _could;_ it's the only comfort he will need for the next few years.

#

He sees John at Christmas a few times, but not otherwise. They send texts and e-mails at least three days a week every other week, when they get bored of their lives and want to find each other again to get lost in their own world for a while. Sometimes they use webcams or the cameras on their phones, but sometimes it's enough to just see the other type.

John is very busy. Busier than Sherlock, even with all of Sherlock's papers and projects assigned by his professors. John is on a tight regimen, however, and that is mainly why. He is kept busy on purpose, meant to be constantly on a task, because he is being taught that everything in the army is a giant list of tasks, because life is essentially a continual loop of mandatory tasks in order to survive.

Sherlock doesn't like it. But he has no say in how things are run, and he can't influence the right people to change things, even if Mycroft now has a position in the British government, because it's John choice as to what he wants to do for a living. It might be inconvenient and Sherlock might pout and sulk over it, but it isn't within in power. It just isn't.

#

They haven't contacted one another for a while now.

It began as a several missed days, then a few missed weeks, and then a couple months. Part of the reason is that John always contacts Sherlock first. And part of the reason is because Sherlock is afraid that this means they are drifting apart, and afraid that maybe they should drift, because the pair of them were being delusional in thinking nothing would change.

Finally, after the third month's marker, Sherlock picks up his phone and dials. He never calls; he prefers to text, or speak in person (Skype coming close). It rings four times, then John picks up, sounding breathless – he struggled to find his phone – and surprised. "Sherlock, hey."

"Hello," Sherlock mutters into his mobile. "Are we still friends?"

"What? Sorry, it's hard to hear you; interference," John replies, and there is a bit of static on his end.

"I wondered if we are still friends," Sherlock repeats tightly, his voice loud and clear.

There is no pause. "Yeah, of course we are! I know we haven't talked in bit, but I think about you. You don't know how much."

"…Alright. Just checking," Sherlock replies. He hangs up; if he continues to talk, he might do something absurdly out of his range and frankly quite insane; like weep into the receiver and confess that he started using again, and smokes sometimes, and had to retake a class because he failed it because he didn't do any of the work because it was all very medical and reminded him too much of John.

#

Sherlock sobers up from what he swears is his last high for a long while, and before the hours being him to his knees from withdrawal, he makes it his mission to look up the acting detective inspector at Scotland Yard and introduce himself.

The man's name is Lestrade – Sherlock doesn't bother with a first name, seeing as how he knows he won't use it – and he has hair that will be solidly silver by the time he reaches forty, and is older than Sherlock by a few years, perhaps roughly Mycroft's age, give or take a year or so.

Lestrade finds Sherlock bewildering, holier-than-thou, and a bit of a nutter, but he respects Sherlock's intelligence, and that shows promise for them yet. Who knows? After a few cases and years spent working on the same side, they might get on famously. Sherlock has a feeling that he has found his ally on the force that will give him work; in fact, he's sure of it.

#

John is twenty-seven when he reaches captain level and is a full-fledge doctor with a degree and years of training under his belt.

He comes to Sherlock – still twenty-six, still without a steady income or occupation, but at least with a place of his own – with news that make Sherlock's knees go weak.

"They're shipping me out in a week to serve in Afghanistan! Can you believe it?" John brags. "And as a captain, no less! I've hardly done anything and they already made me a senior medical officer because I am so good at what I do, and helped save the life of a colonel that came in, wounded from where he was stationed, and I recommended a procedure – and _performed_ it! – that the head surgeon didn't feel confident in. It's amazing, Sherlock; I'm being recognized already, and trusted to go out with the next set of troops to defend my country. You've no idea how this makes me feel."

And he's grinning so much that it takes all of Sherlock's effort not to pop John's bubble and drag him back down to Earth with biting sarcasm and the scathing remarks he wishes to make about the government and John's false idealisms about what war in Afghanistan is like right now and on and on and on. He has to physically bite his tongue to keep from speaking.

Instead, Sherlock gives a tight-lipped smile that doesn't reach his eyes, and in his excitement, John fails to notice the difference between one of Sherlock's real smiles and this false one.

"That's… great, John," Sherlock responds with no tone at all. "I am pleased you are where you want to be."

"Thank you, Sherlock," John says, and Sherlock feels a cold stone in his gut, one born of guilt, because John looks so genuinely appeased while Sherlock is lying through his teeth.

He hugs Sherlock tightly, turning his head and lifting off his heels to kiss Sherlock's temple. John holds their bodies together like that for a while, long enough that Sherlock finally returns the embrace with his hands clasped around John's back. It doesn't take much time before Sherlock grows desperate and sinks into John's shorter body, his hand fisting in John's hair and his nose smooshed against John's shoulder and his other hand on John's lower back clenching the fabric of John's military uniform until it wrinkles sharply all around his hand.

"They taught you how to use a gun, didn't they? Even though you're a doctor?"

"Of course. I'm a soldier, too, not just a doctor. I have to be able to hold my own and treat in the middle of the field."

"Then you need to swear to me you will use it. Don't hesitate just because you are a good man and a doctor, John; kill anyone who means you harm," Sherlock implores as he leans away to look John in the eyes. "I know you are already the type who is willing to shoot for the sake of others; your men, for example. But swear that you will shoot for yourself as well."

John blinks. He nods curtly. "I… I will. I swear, Sherlock."

"…Good."

#

Sherlock gets a call one evening, not more than five months after settling into a new flat. It's from Mrs. Watson.

"John's in London, if you don't know; he was injured, and sent home. He was shot in the shoulder, thankfully; nothing serious. He's looking for work, now, I reckon. You two used to be friends, so I thought you might find him and help him readjust to civilian life again? He has a shrink, you know, to help cope. She's a nice woman named Ella, but he needs a friend. You don't come by anymore, even to pop in for tea, so I hope this isn't too forward –"

"Please, Mum," Sherlock says with a smile, purposely calling her 'mum' to give her a kick of nostalgia when he was a mere child and would mimic John ("Mum, can we please have some ice cream?" "Yeah, Mum, can we? John says you have our favorite!") in calling her so. He can hear her small exhale of relief that he still feels close to her, enough to be friendly. "Naturally, I was planning on doing so as soon as I discovered he was in town. It might take me approximately a week to contact him, however; he's changed his mobile number a while back, and I have a case going at the moment. But as soon as I find him, you'll know, I suspect."

"Thank you, dear," Mrs. Watson responds warmly. "I knew I could count on you."

#

Sherlock doesn't see John again until he's thirty-four. John is scarred and limping and hardened from battle and aged, even for thirty-five, his cane part of the problem, and the bags under his eyes part of another. His hair is already graying at the temple, and his hair is no longer bright blond, but instead a darker, dirtier blond that Sherlock thinks suits John better, but still looks too old on him.

He finds John at St. Bartholomew's hospital, looking for a job now that he's permanently back from serving. He's living in a tiny bed-sit on army pension, and sporting a deadpan expression more often than his usual smile.

Sherlock goes directly up to him immediately.

"I found you," he says.

John peers up at him, gives a waning smile, and nods. "Yeah; took you long enough. I've been in London for a month now, you know."

"I was busy with an arduous case concerning a rather evasive serial killer. And I didn't get the news of your injury –" He glances at John's shoulder, not his limping leg – "From your mother until a week ago."

"Well, that explains it," John replies, and this time, his smile is sincere and lasts longer. Life is coming back to him within ten seconds of speaking to Sherlock; it fills Sherlock with a sort of joy he didn't know he was capable of feeling.

#

"You are moving in with me, aren't you?" Sherlock remarks as he treats John to lunch. "Like we discussed as teenagers."

"I dunno," John mumbles, "I haven't seen you in years. It feels like we need to get to know each other all over again. You were tracking a serial killer, you said? That means you did it, yeah? Became a consulting detective. Only one in the world, I'd imagine."

"I am," Sherlock replies with some modesty in his tone, "But I couldn't have done it if not for the push your shipment to Afghanistan gave me. Knowing you were already a captain when all I did thus far was make contact with the detective inspector of the Yard a few times drove me to do better, become a bit more aggressive, and force my way into cases where I knew the police could use my help. It worked, of course; although I still only have one ally on the force. Most of them despise me. Two of them are those loathsome kids from school, Donovan and Anderson? Although Anderson married someone else, he seems to have rekindled his school romance with Donovan and cheats with her. It's disgusting. But they are on my pal the DI's team, so I can't do a thing about it."

"Sounds complicated," John replies with a passing laugh. "I'm sure seeing me with you again will shut them up, though."

"Yes, that should do the trick. I would enjoy seeing their faces the next time there is a crime scene and I'm able to bring you with me for your medical advice," Sherlock agrees. "Which brings me back to asking: can't you move in with me to make things simpler? You can't stay in that bed-sit forever, and your pension won't last terribly much longer. I could use some help with the rent, and I think you'll like the flat I've chosen. It's right along Baker Street, next to a little sandwich shop called _Speedy's_."

"Is it? Well, I guess I could live with you, then, if it means sandwiches," John jokes, and Sherlock smiles. He finishes his meal, and Sherlock pays the bill. "All right. Show me. And if it's nice, you can expect me moved in by tomorrow."

"Excellent! Come along, then, John; I'd like you to meet our landlady, and show you what will be your room. – If you'll be needing it, that is."

"And why wouldn't –? _Oh,_ " John understands as soon as he rises to his feet. He lets out a laugh, and his cheeks tint pink. "Yes, well. Don't get ahead of yourself."

"I can't help it." He walks up behind John as the shorter man stops outside the tiny restaurant and waits for a cab. Sherlock murmurs right into his ear, "I haven't forgotten how it was to be with you, and even now, I still find you very attractive."

John squirms in his skin at Sherlock's frankness, his insides lighting up. Sherlock, too, has certainly grown in the best of ways since he last saw him nearly a decade ago. He already had thoughts of what their sex could be like, if they would go as far as penetration this time, and so many other things swirling in his head, half built on memory and half structured after fantasy.

"God, I've missed you," John sighs as he turns and snakes a hand behind Sherlock's back, touching the line of his trousers before quickly retreating and heading into the cab that's pulled up. "Time and distance change nothing for us, huh?"

"Nothing at all," Sherlock confirms as he slips into the taxi beside him, his hand falling immediately onto John's thigh.

#

It winds up being very true for them, how time affects them hardly at all.

Because a week later, John has moved in, and they have successfully completed their first case together.

John starts a blog for their team efforts, and clients start rolling in. John lacks his limp – it was psychosomatic, his true injuring lying in his shoulder, as a bullet wound, still healing, like Mrs. Watson said.

At the end of their second week of living together, John enters Sherlock's bedroom with all of his clothes in hand, putting them away in Sherlock's wardrobe and spare drawers in his dresser. Then, stashing his other odd items into place, John looks to Sherlock and smiles before sliding into bed with him.

They make love that night, and suddenly, both their lives are as sorted as they were as teenagers, but _better_ , because now they are on their own, and know what it's like to be without the other, and are experienced enough to realize they prefer to be together; they function at their best that way.

###


End file.
